Blood and Fire
by Outsane
Summary: In which Jet reflects on the loss of his freedom fighters. A powerful tale of death and rebirth. [Rated M for violence, imagery, and language. Complete.]
1. Death

Well, I must say, this is probably my darkest work to date. I really enjoyed it, though. I'm secretly quite proud of it. (I guess it's not so secret anymore, though, is it?) Inspired by a conversation with yanocchi and beta'd by KwiditchJunkie.

This story is in two parts. There is another part coming, already written. I just thought it flowed better seperated. Enjoy and review!

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**Death

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You fucked up.

You fucked up, and they were the ones that paid. Your freedom fighters. Your brothers, your sisters, your friends, your family. The ones that you found, alone and desperate and afraid, and you took them in. You made them strong, made them fierce, made them _fighters—_the kind of fighters that fought for reason, the kind that had a cause, a goal. You made them yours, but you fucked up, and now they're gone.

You fucked up, and you know it's your fault. It was supposed to be a routine raid. Knock a few soldiers out, steal some supplies, maybe scare 'em a bit. But you fucked up. You didn't know that there were more troops coming, didn't know that they'd been sent to get rid of you. You didn't know that they were waiting. You didn't know they would burn down your forest and take your home with it. You didn't know they'd capture you and throw you in dirty cells and kill you.

You fucked up, and they made you watch.

They made you watch as your freedom fighters slowly starved, bellies aching and growling as you gave them your own minuscule prison rations. They made you watch as they cried, terrified and hungry and in pain, holding each other until they fell asleep. They made you watch as they withered away, not just from the starvation but from the loss of hope, the desperation, the knowledge that they were going to die and they couldn't do anything about it. _You _couldn't do anything about it. Not a damn thing.

They made you watch.

They made you watch as they took them, one by one, sobbing and screaming and pleading to stony-faced men in red uniforms. They made you watch as they tied them up, some still crying and struggling, and some looking already dead with glassy eyes and defeated faces.

They took you outside, held you down, and made you watch.

They made you watch as they lit the first on fire. It wasn't what you'd imagined—no, it was so much worse. It started with one stick lit on fire, then it spread to two sticks, then four sticks and then before you knew it there was a full-blown fire beneath his feet. He was screaming, voice breaking and tears running down his face as the fire spread to his shoes and worked its way up. He screamed, over and over, until he couldn't scream at all. You hoped he was dead. Death was kinder than pain.

They made you watch as they lit the second one on fire. You knew it was coming, but you didn't think it'd be so soon. As soon as the first stopped screaming, they started on the second. As the flames consumed his body and his cries ceased, you wondered which death was worse; the death of a boy who was ignorant towards his death, or the death of a boy who had seen and heard and smelled his own death just moments before.

They made you watch as they lit the third child on fire. She wasn't screaming when they started. She didn't struggle as they tied her up, just lied there unmoving, like a broken doll. Her eyes were glazed over, her face pale, and you wondered if she had already died. Then the fire licked at her toes, and she screamed.

You screamed with her. You screamed and you cried and you begged them to stop. You struggled against them, tried to push them away, but they laughed and grabbed you by the chin, jerking your head forward and forcing you to watch.

They made you watch. You lost count of how many. You didn't care. They stopped struggling, and so did you. You were a broken doll, like the little girl, your limp body held up between two soldiers. You stopped struggling, and you stopped screaming, and you stopped crying. You were broken. You wondered if this was what death felt like.

One after another they burned, and they made you watch. You couldn't look away. They made you watch as the fire claimed your sisters and brothers, your friends and family. You lost them, every goddamn one of them, and you couldn't do anything but sit there and watch.

You don't know how long they made you watch, but it felt like an eternity. Day gave way to night, and you remember thinking that the sight of your last fighter covered in flames, illuminating the darkness with brilliant oranges and reds, was one of the most beautiful things you've ever seen. You closed your eyes as that final fire died, taking with it the last of everything you had come to love in the past few years.

_Then you were reborn._


	2. Rebirth

Well, here's part two. Sorry it took so long. :)

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The first thing you did was open your eyes. Everything was dark. You stood up, surprising the soldiers who had been holding you up. You struck one in the throat, and he fell to his knees, clutching his neck and gasping for breath. You kicked the other in the groin, kicked his head when he collapsed, and took his sword.

More soldiers came, and you can't quite remember how you fought them off. You have vague memories of blood and fire. You remember the rage that boiled inside of you, bubbling over and burning anyone in your path. You don't know how many people—no, monsters, you tell yourself—you killed that day, and you don't care. Details are blurry, but you remember one thing clearly:

Red.

Everything became red. Your friends died in it. You enemies wore it. And you, you were _bathed _in it. The red draped itself over your world, a crimson filter covering your eyes and discoloring your surroundings. You fought with reckless abandon, a man with nothing left to lose.

You found yourself alone, at last. You were breathing heavy, covered in a sheen of slick sweat and sticky blood. You killed them, just like they killed your fighters. Just like they killed _you_. 

There was no moon, nor were there any stars. The thick clouds blanketing the night sky began to drizzle, then rain, then pour. Heavy raindrops pelted your skin, and you relished it, feeling the cool cleansing water wash the blood and sweat and death off your body.

You didn't bury them, your fighters. Even if you'd had time, there wasn't much left of them to bury. Instead, you dropped to your knees and prayed to a god you weren't sure you believed in, asking him to take care of these poor souls. You said a prayer for each and every charred and unrecognizable body, each lost friend and comrade.

You left. You weren't sure where you were going. You ran away, ran and ran and ran until your legs gave out and the sun came up. You hadn't eaten in three days, and you were bruised and scratched and sore and bloody, and you were crying, but you were _alive_.

And damn you to hell if you were gonna waste that.

**END.**


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